“You better hope this is something.”
Then I shoot him again, this time in the foot.
He shrieks, curling in on himself like a dying animal. “What the fuck was that for?”
I walk toward the door, looking back just long enough to say:
“For being a despicable, cowardly piece of shit. You drugged an innocent woman and let a fucking predator take her. You’re lucky I’m in too much of a rush to give you the fucking punishment you deserve.”
I step outside, grip the receipt so tight it crumples, and start toward Pike’s car.
“Hold on, Sparrow.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Riley
I regulate every breath, slow and measured, even as my heart batters my ribcage like a frantic animal trying to smash its way out. My chest aches from the force of it, and my mouth tastes faintly of iron, but my lips peel back into a smile so sugary it makes my teeth hurt.
I angle my chin, let my lashes hood my gaze, and turn my voice into a warm honey-murmur.
“Come here, Viper.” I hum it like a secret. “It’s been so long.”
He halts mid-stride. The heavy ring of keys dangles from his fingers, catching the dim bulbs overhead with a dull metallic glint. His eyes flicker. Some part of him softens, but not with kindness; never with kindness, not from him. What lives there is hunger, naked and ugly. The hunger I remember from the days when he prowled my every boundary, when he taught me how to shrink and disappear in a room. When he taught me fear.
“I knew you remembered.” His words slither across the space between us, a soft, snake-like whisper. “I knew you still wanted me.”
I simulate a giggle — just enough, not too much. It sounds almost girlish, and I want to vomit.
“You brought me all the way down here,” I say, rubbing the ice-cold chain with my thumb as if it’s jewelry. “All this trouble, just for me. That’s dedication. I might actually be flattered.”
He grins, and something primal leers out from behind his teeth. He steps closer; the keys jingling a little as his hands shake. “That’s my girl,” he says.
No. Never again.
But I nod, slow, seductive, eyes bright as I let him drink in the lie. He is so, so certain of himself — the man, the monster, the myth he’s built in his own head. I let him savor it.
His right hand rises, knuckles cracked and raw, and he touches my cheek. The skin there tingles, then burns. I force myself not to recoil; I lean into the touch instead, as if starved for it.
“Let’s get you out of these,” he croons, fishing the key from the ring.
He crouches, his arm brushing my bare thigh as he slips the key into the padlock. I stiffen, but I keep the seductive mask on. The chain falls from my left wrist with a click.
Then the right.
My hands are free.
I flex my fingers behind my back; the joints popping from disuse, and swallow a sob that isn’t terror, but hope — a hope so thin it might snap if I exhale too hard. I can’t make a move, not yet. Not with his hands so close and his reflexes primed by violence. I can’t scream either. I need him to believe he’s still the one in charge. I need him close.
I lean in and brush my lips against his.
For a second he freezes, startled by my sudden boldness, but then he melts, his hands trembling as they find my hips. I can feel him shuddering with sick anticipation. I bite back bile and whisper against his mouth, “You missed this, didn’t you?”
He nods, dazed, drunk on the old power. On the memory of me as a girl and himself as the god who broke her.
Good.
I kiss him again, harder and rougher. He kisses me back open-mouthed, his tongue sliding between my lips; I’ll let him taste what he thinks is surrender.
